


Savile Row

by Esteliel



Series: Snakes, Suits, Sex [2]
Category: His Dark Materials (TV)
Genre: Clothing Porn, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mirror Sex, Sugar Daddy Boreal, Suit Porn, Tailoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21750502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: Charles takes the length of silk out of Thomas's hand, then begins to wrap it around Thomas's throat. Thomas can't look away. It's quite possibly the hottest thing he's ever seen, and he's hacked some porn sites in his time. But there's nothing that can compare to what the mirror is showing him right now: Charles in sleek midnight blue and black satin, looking as if he stepped out of a film set, calmly reaching around Thomas to start tying the silk at his throat.Boreal takes Thomas to his tailor.
Relationships: Carlo Boreal/Thomas
Series: Snakes, Suits, Sex [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1567546
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	Savile Row

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Iberiandoctor, Kainosite and E for all the research help, inspiration and brainstorming! <3

Charles is in a good mood. At least there’s a hint of a smile on his face as he watches Thomas over his cup of coffee.

There’s another steaming cup waiting for Thomas, and he takes it with a grateful look.

The coffee’s good—of course it is. Charles has no patience for anything less than excellent in all areas of life. The coffee machine he’s had installed here in his lake house is a sleek, gleaming machine of chrome, the sort of thing used by baristas in his local coffee shop.

Truth be told, most times Thomas just wants _coffee_ , and he couldn’t care less whether its instant, the Costa around the corner, or one of the independent coffee shops with sustainably-sourced fair trade beans and five hundred Yelp reviews.

In the end, it’s all coffee, and the later the night and the deeper he’s in his work, the less he cares.

This is nice though, he has to admit. It’s nicer than what Thomas can get Charles’s fancy machine to do, but it’s nice enough even when Thomas makes it, and it comes at the press of a button.

That’s probably why Charles likes that machine, now that he thinks about it—it’s sleek and elegant and efficient, Charles feeds first-class ingredients into it, and he gets first-class results.

He smiles at Charles over his coffee. “Are you going to tell me why you’re early? I assume it’s not just because you missed me?”

Charles makes a sound of amusement, and a moment later, his snake comes peeking out of his sleeve. Thomas stares, his smile widening—he cannot help but feel a thrill, every single time. There’s something about the way the snake looks at him that’s hard to describe.

“I have plans for you today. We’re leaving in an hour.” Charles’s eyes rake up and down Thomas’s body. “Dress nicely.”

Thomas looks down at himself with a frown. He’s wearing jeans, a black T-shirt and a navy and grey checked shirt. Where are they going where that won’t suffice?

“Are you going to tell me what I’m dressing for?”

Charles just smiles, his snake rising up a little to stare at him. It shouldn’t be possible, but he’d swear that the snake is laughing at him.

***

An hour later, he’s in the Tesla, wearing a pair of slim, grey chinos and a dark green shirt, buttoned all the way up. He’d half expected Charles to throw a tie at him as well—he knows he has a tie somewhere, from the last time he had to interview for a job. That was years ago though. These days, his qualifications ensure that people come to him when they have the sort of problem only someone like Thomas can fix. Even when he started out, his first coding job out of school, no one ever wore anything but jeans and T-shirts—at least not down in the basement where they’d kept their programmers.

The car is completely silent as it follows the winding road through the woods, and so is Charles.

Thomas doesn’t mind. He leans back in his seat, his eyes on Charles instead of the road, feeling a little out of place—Charles is as always wearing a sharply-cut suit in colours that flatter him, as silent and efficient as the car.

He wonders, sometimes, how he ended up in this place, but the work is interesting, the pay is excellent—and so is the sex. So what if Charles is secretive? So is everyone else who hires him. Thomas isn’t exactly black hat—he likes to think that he has some morals—but he’s no white hat do-gooder either. As far as he’s concerned _ethical hacking_ is just an exciting euphemism for the boring corporate coding and testing he’s long left behind.

He likes getting paid well. And he likes interesting problems. And Charles—Charles has opened an entire new world of fascinating problems for him.

He smiles when Charles meet his eyes, then turns his head to look at the trees all around them. 

It doesn’t take long until he realizes that they’re going to London. He doesn’t ask questions although he’s curious—but if Charles had wanted to tell him, he’d have done so already.

Maybe Charles is taking him out for lunch. His lips twitch at the thought. Charles did ask him to dress nicely, after all. But knowing Charles, whatever it is will be connected to whatever job he has lined up for him next—and the prospect of some new problem to get his teeth into is exciting, too.

They end up in Mayfair, creeping down Regent Street until after a few turns, the Tesla comes to a silent halt in front of a storefront of polished, gleaming wood and glass, showing the words _Dege & Skinner_.

Savile Row. Thomas is almost amused. Of course Sir Charles Latrom has a tailor in Savile Row. But why bring him along?

He leaves the car when Charles nods impatiently at the door. Charles doesn’t wait to answer or volunteer any explanation. All Thomas gets is another impatient gesture, then Charles enters without looking back and Thomas follows along—because he hasn’t really had a choice in that since Charles first looked at him.

“Sir Charles,” a man greets them, looking delighted as he shakes Charles’s hand—or perhaps just pretending to be. “How have you been?” Then he turns to Thomas. “And you, sir. I’m delighted to be spending the morning with you.”

Thomas gives Charles a confused look—he thought they were stopped here so that Charles could pick up a suit or order something. Of course, there’s still no explanation. Instead, Charles rests a hand at the small of his back, steering him forward.

“This is Thomas,” he says. “I believe we’ve already come to a decision, Tristan, but take a look at him and tell me what you think.”

Charles is smiling now, bastard that he is, while Thomas feels more awkward than before. The work he does for Charles is not something Charles likes to even allude to in public. It’s unsettling to think that he has been talking to his tailor of all people about Thomas.

Fortunately, as soon as they lead him into a small room filled with a hundred different leather-bound ledgers, Tristan is soon too busy to keep talking about him as if he isn’t there.

Instead, while Charles settles into a comfortable armchair, another man entering to bring him a cup of coffee, Tristan keeps slowly walking around Thomas, reaching out every now and then to tug on his shirt as he thoughtfully tilts his head.

“You are, of course, correct, sir,” he says at last. “Burgundy will be lovely with his colouring.”

As Thomas watches, still confused, the other man fetches several of the ledgers and hands them to Charles, who begins to flip through them.

Thomas is starting to feel awkward. Even though Charles told him to dress well, the three men surrounding him are all dressed in exquisitely tailed three piece suits, whereas he—

Uncomfortably, he hunches his shoulders, feeling out of his depth. Charles hired him because there isn’t a database around he can’t hack his way into, and Charles let him move into the lake house because it’s secluded and his activities are safe from curious eyes there and because he likes to fuck Thomas—but none of these things have ever involved standing in the centre of a room, curiously eyed by three people judging him for his careless way of dressing.

“Please,” Tristan says, “if you could undress, then we will start with taking the measurements.”

Instinctively, Thomas glances at Charles—but he’s still bent over his ledgers, not even looking up to tell him what the hell is going on. Thomas does as he’s told, feeling more awkward than ever when he’s standing in the middle of the room naked except for his underwear and socks, surrounded by three men in sharp suits.

Tristan begins by stepping behind Thomas and wrapping his measuring tape lightly around his neck. He starts calling out numbers to his assistant, and Thomas tries not to feel awkward—it’s a tailor, this is what they do. Tristan’s probably seen a hundred people standing awkwardly in his measuring room.

Only the thing is, none of Tristan’s usual customers will feel awkward. Most people don’t come in here wearing an ill-fitting shirt they bought on sale. The men who come to Savile Row for a bespoke suit surely look as Charles does—cool and collected, easily dominating every room they enter. Has Charles ever felt awkward for a single moment of his life? Thomas doubts it.

When he looks up, he sees that Charles has abandoned his ledger. It rests open in his lap, and Thomas can see now that it contains samples of fabric.

Charles is watching him, a small smile on his face, and Thomas feels his throat go tight and his face heat. He knows that look.

Charles is pleased with himself. Charles is pleased with what he sees.

At last, Thomas has to look away, his face still hot, because he’s almost naked and if he looks at Charles for just one more second everyone in this room will know that he gets off on Charles watching him like that.

Even so, he has to swallow and force himself to think of one of the most humiliating moments of his life before he’s no longer in danger of embarrassing himself.

Not that it would come as a surprise to Tristan. Surely Tristan knows what’s up. What reason could there possibly be for why a man like Charles would bring a man like Thomas here to have him measured for a suit?

“Four,” Tristan says, “Eighteen and a half, thirty-two,” and the other man sitting close to Charles notes it all down—by hand, with a pencil, of course, not on an iPad as you’d think he would.

But then, that’s smart. Can’t hack a database that consists of smudged pencil in old ledgers. Thomas would know.

“Relax please, sir. Forty-three. Sixty-six.”

Tristan moves fast, holding his measuring tape against Thomas’s spine, his shoulders, his arms, the numbers coming so quickly that half the time Thomas isn’t even sure what’s getting measured.

At least there’s a friendly, distant professionalism to the procedure, even when Tristan is on his knees, measuring Thomas’s legs. The tape rests cool and smooth against the inside of his thighs. Charles eyes on him, on the other hand, aren’t cool. They’re amused and possessive and slightly distracted, as they always are, as if he’s already four steps ahead in whatever plan of his Thomas is getting himself entangled in right now.

When it’s over, they leave him standing in the centre of the room. Charles waves a distracted a hand at him to keep him standing where he is while he and Tristan sit next to each other, talking while Charles slowly leafs through the samples again.

Everything about it is strange. It feels the way Thomas imagines Charles must have felt at first, crossing into a different world—but Charles is unafraid, just as much at home in this Oxford, this London, as he must be in his own.

Charles’s world is _power_ , which seems to be the just the same in their worlds, and he wields it with an ease and a grace that never fails to make Thomas’s throat go dry. It makes him want to go to his knees and suck Charles’s dick.

Charles knows it. The knowledge pleases him so much that Thomas can’t help but wonder if it’s different in his world. To imagine a world where men don’t want to fling themselves at Charles’s knees to suck him off is harder to imagine than a world where people are accompanied by a daemon, that’s for sure.

With a little jolt, Thomas realizes that his mind has started to wander.

He’s still almost naked in the centre of the room, surrounded by well-dressed men who ignore him. But Charles has looked up now, his eyes raking up and down Thomas’s naked body again. Slowly, he moistens his lips. Thomas has to swallow. The sight is mesmerizing; he can’t look away from it.

A moment later, Charles turns back to fingering a sample of cloth, and Thomas fights to regain his composure, because as awkward as the measuring has been so far, sporting an unmistakable hard-on here right in a Savile Row measuring room would take things to a degree of awkwardness he has no desire of experiencing.

As if on cue, Charles’s snake slides its small, white head out of his suit by his wrist. Are Charles’s suits tailored to allow space for a snake to move freely beneath the fabric? And if so, how did Charles explain that to his tailor?

The snake watches him from unreadable eyes, the forked tongue coming out almost mockingly as it tastes the air, and Thomas has to fight not to flush. Can it smell his arousal? Probably. Charles has never really answered any of Thomas’s questions, but he knows that there’s a bond between them.

Well, it isn’t as if Charles needs to rely on his daemon’s senses to know what state Thomas is in. No doubt it’s all very clear to Charles. After all, there’d be no reason to bring Thomas here with no explanation if Charles didn’t enjoy the sight of him naked and awkward and out of place.

On the other hand, Charles is working on something. Some sort of plan. And as much as he enjoys Thomas too, Thomas knows that there’s no way he would ever endanger one of his plans for a few moments of pleasure.

Luckily for him, Charles knows how to combine work and pleasure.

A moment later, the snake withdraws its head beneath Charles’s suit, and Tristan stands, his measuring tape at the ready when he returns to Thomas while his assistant collects other samples of fabric for Charles to feel.

More measuring follows, together with an endless litany of numbers Tristan calls out. Thomas idly thinks about the efficiency of 3D scanners and printers, but he knows better than to suggest such a thing. Men like these—men like Charles—enjoy the fact that they’re purchasing something that has been crafted in excruciating hours by hand, never mind that there are easier ways to get better results.

But if it were easy, it wouldn’t be a status symbol, would it.

By the time Thomas is at last fully dressed once more—now embarrassingly aware of the way his shirt and chinos fall short of the standards of the people around him—it feels as if they’ve spent an entire day in here. He still has no idea what it is that Charles has ordered—a suit? Several suits? A shirt? Whatever it is, he hasn’t thought it necessary to tell Thomas, who has waited patiently all this time while Charles was engaged in discussions with Tristan.

“It was a pleasure to see you again, Charles,” Tristan says, shaking Charles’s hand before he turns to Thomas.

Whatever he thinks Thomas might be, there’s no sign of it on his face as he shakes Thomas’s hand as well, touching his arm with a warm smile that appears utterly genuine. Thomas still doesn’t feel as if he has any right to be here.

“And you, Thomas. It’s always a special day to have a first suit fitting. Over the years, we see generations come through. We see young men grow, rise and develop their own unique sense of style. It’s a really special relationship between a man and his tailor. You’re trusting us to make you look your best, after all. Men will introduce a partner in a bank or a legal firm—or of course often bring their son to us. It’s almost a rite of passage.”

A special little club, Thomas thinks.

He is impressed that Tristan’s face shows no trace of which category he thinks Thomas might fit into, even though surely everyone in this room knows that he’s neither Charles’s son nor a lawyer nor anyone else who’d ever need a bespoke suit. And he can’t even say that he minds.

He’s always known that Charles picked him because he’s smart, because he’s good at what he does—one of the best. He’s certainly never expected anyone to think that Charles keeps him around for his pretty face. It’s amusing. As is the fact that while Tristan goes on about special relationships and rites of passage, he’d be able to trace all of Tristan’s transactions, all of his clients, just like that.

But they’re playing Charles’s game, and if Charles is having fun showing him off, then Thomas is happy to play along. Playing along with Charles’s ideas has treated him very well so far, after all.

“I will see you soon, Charles,” Tristan says when he accompanies them to the door.

“In two weeks. That won’t be a problem?”

“You know we can make anything possible for you.” Tristan smiles his trademark smile, perfectly warm and cordial as he opens the door for them.

Just how much money does it take to make anything possible for Charles? But then, Thomas is just the same as Tristan. Anything for Charles, no matter how many nights and how much coffee it takes.

Only Thomas doesn’t ask for a bonus when he brings Charles new titbits of information found during those nights he technically wasn’t getting paid for.

He looks at Charles, then forces his gaze away again as something in his stomach twists with sudden hunger. Oh, he gets a bonus all right—just not the same that Dege & Skinner’s tailors receive. At least he doesn’t hope so.

“He thinks you’re fucking me, and that’s why you’re buying me a ridiculously expensive suit,” he says once he’s inside the Tesla once more.

Charles raises a brow at him. “He’s right.”

“But you don’t need to spend money on me if you want to fuck me.”

The Tesla’s windows are dark. It’s impossible to figure out from the outside what’s happening inside behind the tinted windows.

Thomas rests a hand on Charles’s thigh, then slides it towards his groin. The expensive fabric of his trousers feels luxurious, all smooth and warm beneath his fingers, Charles’s thigh firm with muscles.

There’s an answering firmness waiting for him when his fingers find Charles’s fly.

“I know,” Charles says, a smile on his face.

Thomas opens his trousers, eagerly frees Charles’s beautifully hard cock, and goes down on him right there in front of the windows of Dege & Skinner, 10 Savile Row.

***

Charles stays away for two weeks, and Thomas quickly forgets about the measuring. There are other things that occupy his mind.

Charles never shares much of his plans, but he’s asked him to get as much information he can about the security system employed by the British Museum. It’s a fun challenge, and while he can’t help but wonder what Charles needs the information for—it helps making sure he doesn’t overlook any important details, although for all he knows Charles might be planning to steal a mummy or maybe just wants to break in to enjoy a stroll among the exhibits at midnight without the crush of tourists around him—finding the information he needs and then spending a fun few days searching for security flaws soon has him forget about everything but the challenge posed by the screens in front of him.

When Charles returns—this time at the time Thomas expected him—he looks distracted, although he’s pleased with the progress Thomas has made, looking over his shoulder at the screen that’s showing a live feed of the British Museum’s security cams while reaching into Thomas’s bag of Doritos.

“Good,” he says when he draws back, his hand heavy on Thomas’s shoulder. “You’re good.”

It’s stupid, the rush of embarrassed pleasure at Charles’s words. It’s not like Thomas isn’t aware that he’s good—he’s one of the best at what he does, which is why Charles has hired him in the first place.

Still. The pleasure inside him rises and bursts in little bubbles of warmth, so different to the pleasure Charles’s touch usually causes. It’s worth it, those long nights of scouting out ways to break into heavily secured databases, just to see Charles pleased.

“I knew you liked me for more than my dick,” he says, smiling, because they both know that the sex is a pleasant but negligible bonus for Charles.

For Thomas, it’s a bonus, because nothing about Charles is negligible. Or maybe it’s the fascinating problems Charles throws him that are the bonus.

Either way, he’s pretty happy with how his life is going.

“We’re leaving in an hour,” Charles then says. “Show me that feed of the west stairs again. Then get ready. Dress nicely.”

Thomas leaves Charles with the video, still none the wiser as to what Charles is looking for. He dresses—he’d be embarrassed to admit it, but he picked up a new shirt in dark green, because that’s what the store assistant said would go well with his colouring. She was smiling at him when she said it, because she was thinking he was nervous about a date.

In a way, he is—only it’s not so much a date but the knowledge that he’ll be the centre of attention in a small room full of very expensively dressed men.

Perhaps making an effort is even worse, because even when he makes an effort a single glance is enough to tell that he’s very far out of Charles’s league, who is wearing a three piece suit in an elegant, almost silvery pale blue-grey today, paired with a navy tie and pocket square and the ubiquitous golden tie clip.

It’s hot as hell. Thomas would be the first to admit it. But appreciating Charles’s impeccable style doesn’t mean that he has any wish to match it. Or at least, he wouldn’t, if Charles hadn’t made that decision for him.

The ease with which Charles makes decisions for everyone around him is fortunately just as hot, so when Thomas slides into the Tesla, he’s in a good mood, even though he’s pretty certain what’s waiting for him.

They stop in front of 10 Savile Row, of course, just as he’d expected.

Inside, Tristan is already waiting, greeting both of them warmly as if they were old friends. Thomas marvels at his ease. He’s pretty sure that Tristan thinks he’s Charles’s boy toy, given that Thomas is quite obviously very much out of place here—and given the way Charles looks at him.

But whatever Tristan might think of him, he’s treating Thomas as if he were a treasured, life-long customer as he leads him along a corridor of dark wooden display cases and gleaming, polished brass, showing off royal warrants, old uniforms and portraits of powerful men dead for a century or more.

It’s very much not an environment Thomas feels at home in—but then, this isn’t even Charles’s world, and yet he moves as if he were one of those men whose grandfathers look sternly down at them from their portraits, all wearing ridiculously expensive bespoke suits or uniforms tailored by the original Dege or Skinner.

The room they end up in is less intimidating, mostly because it looks like a place where actual work is done rather than a place showing off the accumulated wealth of two centuries of powerful men. There’s another man there awaiting them—and there are suits, a lot of them, probably waiting for the other customers who have an appointment today.

Charles takes a seat. Someone brings him a cup of coffee which he sips slowly as he watches Thomas, who is handed his new suit to try on.

Having to undress is no longer quite as embarrassing, mainly because at least this time, he’s able to slip into crisps shirts, new trousers, then a waistcoat and a suit jacket that he immediately feels comfortable in.

Tristan smooths the fabric over Thomas’s shoulders, then takes a step back, half-talking to himself. “Just enough give—we could take it in a bit here, but I would not recommend it. You want it to be comfortable. If you move in it, I think you will see—yes indeed, I would not advise to take it in anymore,” he says when Thomas tentatively stretches his arms to the side, then rolls his shoulders.

Thomas turns a little to face himself in the mirror. The actual sight of his reflection is a bit of a shock.

The suit does fit well—so well that he’s almost embarrassed to realize that a suit can fit like this. The couple of times he’d been forced to wear a suit, they had always felt awkward on his frame—the shoulders too large or too narrow, the jacket either too constricting or too baggy.

The suit is made of a navy fabric that feels good against his skin when he runs his fingers over it.

“The navy kid mohair blend,” Tristan says with a nod at Charles, “a good choice especially for warmer days. Wear it with the shirt you are wearing right now—cotton voile, very light—and you will be comfortable even during summer events. For colder days, you can pair it with a heavier cotton. It’s very versatile, as you see.”

When Tristan makes him turn around, his eyes meet those of Charles, who is watching with quiet satisfaction. Awkwardly, Thomas’s hands go to his tie just to have something to do, but before he can destroy the work of Tristan, who has his tie perfectly nestled against his shirt, he forces himself to let his arms hang down again.

“What do you think?” he asks Charles, just to say something.

With a smile, Charles stands and approaches. Thomas can feel his own heartbeat pick up when Charles runs a hand down the front of his suit with a thoughtful look in his eyes.

“Good work,” he says to Tristan. “Let us see the next one.”

Confused, Thomas goes along with it as Tristan helps him take off the navy suit, only to bring forward another suit from those hanging at the back. Thomas had assumed they were waiting for Tristan’s other customers, but clearly he was wrong.

The suit Tristan helps him into is cut from a grey cloth this time, the fabric a little heavier than the navy suit.

“A lovely cashmere merino blend,” Tristan explains as he carefully arranges the lapels, “warmer than the mohair. This is what we call a notched lapel.”

Thomas finds himself following with his eyes as Tristan’s fingers run along the outer edge of the lapel which is indeed notched. Is that so unusual? Just a few minutes ago, he’d have said without the need to even think about it that this is what suit jackets always look like.

“A shawl lapel is often more elegant, though of course that depends on various factors—not everyone can wear it well. Still, what you’re wearing right now will be suitable for all business occasions. You could combine it with a T-shirt or a polo neck jumper for a more relaxed look, or simply wear it without the tie if you want. But right now you are perfectly dressed for most occasions, from business meetings to a dinner with your partners or an evening at the opera.”

It feels a little like receiving remedial lessons in manners, and Thomas is amused—he doubts very much that he’ll ever attend a business dinner with his partners, unless they are partners in crime, as Charles is. But then, it was Charles who brought him here, and he’s perfectly happy to play along with Charles plans because they’re always fun. And if that includes receiving lessons in pretending to be part of Charles’s exclusive Savile Row club, he’s happy enough to pretend that he’s in a Bond film, going undercover among the rich and famous.

He twists and turns a little in front of the mirror, amused by how different he looks. He still doesn’t feel like he belongs here, among these cases of dark wood and gleaming brass and portraits of scowling generals and princes—but the man in the mirror who looks back at him wouldn’t be out of place in a Bond film, perhaps sipping a martini in the background while Bond faces off against Charles. Or, more likely, trying to hack Bond’s phone for Charles.

The suit he’s wearing is a light grey, the cashmere wool soft against his fingertips, although it lacks the subtle sheen of the mohair blend. Still, the way it settles across his shoulders makes him instinctively straighten. Tristan has given him a black shirt to combine it with and a sleek, silver tie. The waistcoat is a silvery grey as well, a shade or two darker than the cashmere of his jacket, and with a subtle paisley pattern.

“Silk,” Tristan says as he expertly folds a pocket square of the same silvery silk, then arranges it carefully in Thomas’s pocket. 

Thomas shifts his shoulders in front of the mirror, marvelling at the ease with which the suit moves with him. It _fits_ , there’s no other word for it. There are no ugly creases, no fabric bunching in places where it shouldn’t. The suit fits as if it were made for him—which of course, it was.

“What do you think?” Tristan says.

“It feels good.”

Telling Tristan that he feels like he’s auditioning for a Bond film is probably the wrong choice, and so he settles on something less nerdy. And of course, Tristan doesn’t know that Thomas isn’t here because he’s the ill-dressed boy toy of a powerful man having a Pretty Woman moment. Thomas is here because he’s one of the best hackers in the scene—he isn’t bragging when he says he could probably hack the Ministry of Defence if he wanted—and whatever this is, it’s connected to one of the twenty different plans Charles is constantly hatching in his mind, feeding Thomas information like throwing breadcrumbs to a bird when Thomas could help much better if he knew what exactly he’s working on.

“It’s easy to move in it.” He smiles at Tristan, who tugs at his cuffs and straightens something here and there while Charles watches him.

“What do you think?” Thomas says, and Charles gets up again.

Something twists and tightens in his stomach as Charles’s hand slides along his shoulder as he circles him. Thomas has to swallow when Charles finally stops in front of him, his hand slowly running down his lapel, unbuttoning his jacket, smoothing his hands down the waistcoat as if to test its fit while Thomas is trying very hard to think about something unsexy—the maths teacher who hated him, the legacy code they’d had him work on in his first year out of uni, the time his first ever boyfriend broke up with him…

“Yes, that will do very well,” Charles says, his voice smooth and cool as he takes a step back.

Thomas’s heart is still pounding in his chest, the air fragrant with the scent of Charles’s skin, mingled with the familiar, expensive aftershave he uses. Before his mind flashes a memory of Charles fucking him in the shower, the tiles cool against his front, Charles’s skin hot against his back.

At least after this, he gets a moment’s break because the suit Tristan now produces is for Charles, not him.

His mouth goes dry as he watches Charles dress: trousers with the sharpest, crispest crease he has ever seen, a white shirt, a black sash-like strip of fabric which Tristan helpfully explains is a cummerbund, a black dinner jacket with satiny black lapels, and another length of black silk which Charles expertly ties into a perfect bow without a single glance into the mirror.

Tristan must have seen how awe-struck he looks, because there’s pride in the way he smiles before he goes to do his job—which seems to consist mainly of walking around Charles while murmuring unintelligible things to which Charles nods. He turns this way, then that as he critically eyes the mirror, still as cool and collected as he was when he sat in his chair, watching Thomas receive the same treatment.

Despite his new bespoke grey suit, Thomas feels almost shabby next to Charles and embarrassed for indulging in James Bond fantasies. That, in front of him, is the real deal. No one would laugh if Charles were to stroll in and order a martini—shaken, not stirred. Or is it the other way around?

Thomas can’t remember, and anyway, it doesn’t fucking matter, because if Charles was hot before, in his crisp suits that make him look like he travels to Oxford via private jet, he now looks actual movie star hot—Oscar night red carpet hot. What the hell is Thomas even doing here? They can dress him up in their bespoke suits all they want, but there’s no way he’ll ever be _that_...

“That’s what we call black tie attire,” Tristan says with deep satisfaction as he eyes Charles—the words that follow another subtle lesson for Thomas. “Suitable for a gala event or, of course, a night at the opera.”

Tristan smiles at Charles, that warm, friendly smile that is never too friendly, as if they’re all old friends here in their private little club. “Is there a special occasion you have in mind?”

Charles returns his smile, though his eyes come to linger on Thomas. Thomas barely knows where to look, because more than anything, he wants to run his hands down Charles’s perfectly dressed chest right now and fall to his knees to mouth at his trousers and—

“Naomi Campbell’s Fashion for Relief show at the British Museum,” Charles says, and suddenly several pieces fall into place in Thomas’s mind. “There will be a gala dinner afterward—a fundraiser.”

“Ah,” Tristan says warmly, half turning to Thomas—the explanation that follows of course for Thomas’s benefit, not Charles. “At such an event, you might be more daring, despite the dress code. Of course, there’s nothing wrong at all with an outfit that follows the dress code to a T. With such an event that gathers the stars of the fashion world, the restrained elegance of a man who knows that he needs nothing more than the craftsmanship of a quality suit will stand out from the crowd. Nevertheless, given the occasion, we could complement the outfit with a bow or a pocket square that will catch the eye, patterned perhaps—”

Charles smiles slowly, meeting Thomas’s eyes. “Oh, I have already chosen a statement piece to complete my outfit.”

Thomas feels heat rush to his face when he realizes what Charles means.

And it isn’t that he’s embarrassed that Charles has just all but called him his fucktoy in front of his tailor, because Thomas is more than aware that Charles values him for one thing only, and that’s his skill with the tech of this world. Still, now that Charles’s plan becomes clearer and clearer, he feels daunted by what Charles seems to expect of him.

Daydreams about James Bond adventures are all very well—but he’s not a spy. He’s good with code, and that’s what Charles pays him for. If Charles really intends to take him to a gala dinner for whatever he’s plotting, there’s no way that Thomas won’t immediately ruin his plans.

He’s a hacker, not an actor.

“Indeed, sir,” Tristan murmurs with a knowing smile, as if he’s in on whatever joke Charles is playing on him.

Thomas’s heart is still racing—Charles can’t really mean it, can he?—and a moment later, Tristan’s hands are on him, carefully helping him out of the grey suit.

Thomas can’t protest or ask questions, not in front of Tristan, and so he has no option but to glare at Charles when Tristan isn’t looking. It doesn’t help much, though. Charles is just smiling his infuriating little smile that doesn’t give anything away, and then Tristan is back with yet more clothes for him to slip into.

It isn’t until Tristan closes the button at the front and smooths his hands over his shoulders before Thomas becomes aware of what he’s wearing.

A dinner suit. Black tie attire—he’s learned that much. But it’s more than that. When he turns to look into the mirror, it takes his breath away.

Charles is all smooth elegance in black mohair and satin—”Midnight blue,” Tristan pointed out earlier, “it will look black under artificial lighting.”

In turn, Thomas looks like… He cannot find words for it.

Slowly, he raises a hand to run it along a sleeve. The fabric is soft to the touch—maybe the softest thing he has ever touched, with a beautiful lustre as it subtly reflects the light.

“Velvet,” Tristan says with deep satisfaction. “A less conservative option, but very elegant—very fashionable right now.”

Thomas strokes his sleeve again, awed by how soft the fabric is. It’s a deep, dark red, like old, expensive wine. The suit clings to him like a second skin. In the mirror, he doesn’t look lanky, awkwardly tall—he looks elegant, tall and trim, dazzling in his dark red velvet next to Charles expensive, laid-back elegance.

Where Charles is wearing a simple satin cummerbund the same midnight-blue as his jacket, Thomas’s cummerbund is made from the same wine-red velvet as his own jacket. His shirt is white, as is Charles’s, but unlike the shirts he’s tried on with the earlier, simpler suits, this shirt features what he’d probably describe as lines of tiny ruffles at the front.

“Pleated,” Tristan says smoothly as soon as he sees Thomas trace the ruffles—or pleats. His fingers touch the tiny, round buttons that come in a matching dark red that looks almost black. “Shirt studs instead of buttons to complete the outfit—it is a more elegant look, as you can see.”

Studs, not buttons, Thomas repeats to himself. He needs to make a cheat sheet for Charles’s gala dinner.

“And unlike you would think from the name,” Tristan says with another of his small, warm smiles that make it seems as if they’re all sharing a secret together here in this room, “you do of course not have to wear a black tie, although a black bow, the way Sir Charles is wearing it, is always suitable. There’s a timeless elegance to it, no matter the fashion of the day. For your outfit, on the other hand, I would suggest either black or something in the shade of this lovely velvet.”

He holds out several lengths of silk—a deep black, the wine red of his dinner jacket and another length of black silk that is patterned in red that is just a few hues lighter than the velvet.

Thomas hesitates over them for a moment, uncertain what to pick. His first instinct is to go with the black silk—it’s what Charles is wearing, and Tristan said it’s timeless and would be suitable anywhere. But then, Charles apparently intends to bring him as a sort of flashy accessory to his timeless elegance, so perhaps the correct choice is to go with the patterned silk?

In the end, he picks the wine red silk, and Charles gives him a brief nod. 

For a heartbeat, he stands awkwardly in front of the mirror, because while he knows how to tie a tie, this is definitely out of his league. He always assumed that the little bows were just clipped on.

When he swallows and looks up, Charles has moved behind him, one hand on his shoulder as their eyes meet in the mirror. It knocks the breath out of Thomas’s lungs. Charles has always had that effect on him, but the way he looks right now in his glamorous red carpet outfit, exuding power and confidence and wealth, makes Thomas’s knees go weak.

Charles takes the length of silk out of Thomas’s hand, then begins to wrap it around Thomas’s throat. Thomas can’t look away. It’s quite possibly the hottest thing he’s ever seen, and he’s hacked some porn sites in his time. But there’s nothing that can compare to what the mirror is showing him right now: Charles in sleek midnight blue and black satin, looking as if he stepped out of a film set, calmly reaching around Thomas to start tying the silk at his throat.

Thomas doesn’t dare to breathe as he watches, agonizingly aware of the warmth of Charles’s breath against his skin, the light rasp of his perfectly groomed beard, the expensive spice of his aftershave, the cool confidence of his gaze as his fingers unhurriedly tie a perfect bow. Charles isn’t even watching what he’s doing—he’s watching Thomas in the mirror.

Thomas can barely breathe, sudden heat curling in his stomach. He’s never felt so close to Charles before. There’s a strangely domestic intimacy to the act; it’s something a father might do for a son—and all the same it feels more arousing than the first time Charles fingered him open with broad, lubed fingers, both of them too impatient to wait for more than a few seconds.

He’s breathing hard. In the mirror, he can see that he has flushed.

There’s a light pressure all around his throat as Charles tightens the silk a little, and Thomas feels his cock ache, already half hard.

Any more of this, and he’s going to ruin his expensive new suit—but even so he can’t look away from the mirror. It’s impossible; not with Charles looking at him like that, Charles’s hands on his shoulders, possessive, pleased, proud.

He sees the tip of Charles’s tongue come out to moisten his lips and his heart skips a beat. He’s going to utterly embarrass Charles any moment now, but Charles doesn’t give him a break, even though Thomas is sure that he knows what state he’s in.

Instead, Charles turns him around and runs his hands down his chest. He straightens a cuff, then tugs on the cummerbund, all the while looking utterly cool and unaffected as if he doesn’t know how close Thomas is to falling to his knees and groping for Charles’s cock right here in front of Tristan.

“Yes. That’ll do.” Charles sounds just as smooth and calm when he steps back a little to eye Thomas critically. “That will do very well, Tristan. Thank you.”

“As always, it’s our pleasure,” Tristan says warmly, as if he can’t see that Thomas can just barely keep himself together. “Take your time—make certain that you’re satisfied with the fit. You know we’re happy to make even the smallest adjustment. Meanwhile I will see about getting your additional shirts and ties packed up for you. And if there is anything else—”

“Thank you, Tristan,” Charles says. “I think I changed my mind about the cuff links. Would you add the golden ones we talked about last time, please?”

“Of course,” Tristan says, and a moment later there is the sound of the door, and suddenly everything is quiet.

Thomas almost doesn’t dare to turn around, because he’s still _hard_ , and if anyone sees him now there is no way he can hide the bulge in his trousers. Then Charles’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder again, Charles’s hot breath against his throat, just above where he’s tied the silk around his neck, and Thomas groans and turns around and presses his mouth to Charles, no longer caring who’s watching.

But they’re alone. Tristan has left, and there’s just him and Charles in the room.

A moment later, Charles pushes him around again so that he’s facing the mirror, and this time there’s no denying the awkward bulge in his expensive trousers.

Holding his gaze in the mirror, Charles smiles. Then his hand is at Thomas’s fly, opening his trousers and freeing his cock.

Thomas gasps at the touch of Charles’s fingers. He’s so hard he’s aching, and the vision in the mirror is obscene—a man in an expensive suit of wine-red velvet and black trousers, dressed for a gala even, perfectly styled from top to bottom—and with his rock-hard cock exposed.

Charles’s smile widens. Then his fingers tighten around Thomas.

“Would be a pity to ruin the suit,” he murmurs as he starts stroking Thomas. “Don’t you think.”

“Oh god,” Thomas gasps, barely able to think. “Don’t—he’ll be back any minute—”

Charles laughs against his ear. “Not if he knows what’s good for him. And believe me, he knows.”

Even Charles’s fingers feel good—they’re smooth and strong, used to wielding power, and Thomas’s cock is as obedient to his demands as Thomas himself. They feel as irresistible as the velvet, as out of his league as the silk—but they are relentless, stroking his aching cock up and down, up and down in a hypnotic rhythm until he can’t help himself, his hips coming forward instinctively to thrust into Charles’s grasp.

“None of that,” Charles chides softly, mockingly, his thumb lovingly swirling around the tip of his cock until Thomas is trembling. “You’re going to ruin the suit, and I have a use for it in mind. And for you.”

“Fuck me,” Thomas gasps, staring at the picture they make in the mirror. “Charles, please! I can’t—”

Charles’s hand strokes down his cock, then back up, so slowly that he thinks he’ll go insane from need. There’s not enough pressure—Charles’s touch is so gentle that it feels as ethereal as the silk—and he’s aching, his balls drawn up tight and his cock wet at the tip, and oh god, any moment now he’s going to drip precome all over the polished marble floor of Dege & Skinner, 10 Savile Row, where generations of powerful men have walked...

Charles’s fingers strike down again. He can feel the pressure starting to build in his balls, something in his stomach tightly coiled as he trembles, his cock dark red with blood in the mirror. The sight is hypnotic.

A moment later, Charles strokes back upwards. There’s a helpless moan stuck inside his chest, and he can’t look away from the sight in the mirror as the pressure builds and builds.

He’s trembling in Charles’s arms now, the moan escaping his throat in the form of a whimper which he prays won’t be audible outside the room. Charles’s other hand comes forward, holding the silken pocket square. A moment later it’s wrapped around the head of his cock, unbelievably soft as Charles strokes him with it, silkier than any mouth he’s ever felt on his cock—and more expensive.

Then Charles’s fingers tighten, stroking up and down rapidly, demandingly, and Thomas can only turn his head, stifling his gasp against the corner of Charles’s mouth as he comes helplessly into the square of expensive black silk.

Charles gives him only a moment to recover before he steps away from him, as always looking calm and unaffected, as if Thomas didn’t just ruin his brand new Savile Row pocket square by jizzing into it.

“Undress,” Charles says. “Put the first suit back on. The navy mohair.”

“Not going to a gala dinner today, are we?” Thomas asks, still breathing hard.

Charles only smiles, then drops the ruined pocket square into the bin. “I’m taking you out for lunch.”

“Pizza Express?” Thomas asks hopefully, because if Charles thinks that he can sit through an entire dinner in a posh Mayfair restaurant after what he’s just done—

“Pizza,” Charles half-concedes, and Thomas smiles. 

He’s never received an answer yet when he asked, and the mere thought of a world without pizza seems even stranger than a world with daemons, but sometimes, given Charles’s penchant for pizza and curries and crisps, he wonders what they eat in his Oxford. Maybe one day, he’ll find the courage to see for himself…

“See it as a test run.” Charles is still smiling, but his snake is peeking out from beneath his sleeve and its stare is as intense as his.

“For what?”

Charles’s smile widens, but he doesn’t answer.

“The British Museum thing, obviously,” Thomas mutters. “Are you going to tell me what that’s all about?”

The snake’s tongue comes out. A moment later, it withdraws back into the shadows beneath Charles’s suit.

“You’ll have to tell me eventually,” Thomas says. “You won’t just drag me to some gala charity thing without telling me what I’m doing there—right?”

There’s still no answer.

“Charles, please,” he says, feeling panic rise inside him, because the mere thought is worse than any nightmare about failing past exams. “I don’t know anything about how to behave—what would I even say, and—I’ll probably use the wrong fork—”

“You’ll know,” Charles says. “Don’t worry. You’ll know all you need to know. If you behave.”

He turns towards the door. A moment later, Tristan returns, followed by an assistant carrying bags. It only takes a few more minutes until they’re back in the Tesla together with their new suits and several bags full of shirts and ties and waistcoats and cuff links.

When Charles turns his head to look at him, he looks pleased. Thomas has to admit that the navy suit fits well—he’s not uncomfortable at all.

He wonders what they’re talking about inside. Surely they all think that Charles is his sugar daddy. What other reason can there be for Charles to spend so much money on his outfits?

He chances a look at the bags in the back. It’s true; there’s really no reason for the large selection of suits and shirts and accessories. He’s only going to need the one black tie outfit after all.

When he turns back to look at Charles, he comes face to face with the snake. It’s watching him from Charles’s headrest, holding his gaze unwaveringly the same way Charles does before it turns away to slither towards the bags.

“Now they definitely think that you’re fucking me,” he says. “And that you’re my sugar daddy.”

“Does that bother you?”

Thomas shrugs. It doesn’t, really… But it’s still awkward. Perhaps mainly just because he’s so out of place there. “It doesn’t. But he’s your tailor. As long as it doesn’t bother you…”

“They know better than to bother me,” Charles says, and Thomas nods, because he has no doubt at all that Tristan will be just as warmly delighted and helpful the next time Charles steps into 10 Savile Row.

“Still,” he says, a little more hesitantly, because getting paid for the work he does is one thing—he knows he’s good at it, after all. “You didn’t have to buy all of that. Unless it’s part of your plan?”

Charles is watching him again. Behind them, he can hear the soft sounds the snake’s body makes as it opens carefully wrapped bags of paper, sliding into each to explore the contents.

The snake’s probably as much of a snob as Charles.

The thought makes him smile a bit.

“I don’t care what you’re wearing when I’m not around,” Charles says at last. “If you want to sit in front of your screen in old shirts and underwear, feel free to, as long as you find what I want. But when I’m around, I want you to dress well for me from now on. Will that be a problem?”

A little jolt of heat runs through him at Charles’s words, his toes curling as his lips part instinctively. Dazedly, he nods, even as he’s surprised by his reaction to Charles’s demand.

Maybe he should be annoyed, because he’s never been one of those stereotypical hackers sitting in front of their laptop in their underwear. He’s always been perfectly adequately dressed—it’s just that Charles doesn’t think jeans are adequate for anything.

He swallows, then licks his lips, shying away from interrogating just why Charles’s demand is so hot, but—something about it _is_ hot. Even now, he’s wearing clothes Charles has selected for him, and the awareness of it makes his body feel warm and heavy.

He sinks back into his seat and tries to breathe deeply. There’s pizza to come before he can beg Charles to fuck him as hard and as long as he can.

“No problem,” he says easily, just a little bit breathless, and he turns his head and smiles at Charles. “Anything to make you happy.”

At this point, the thought of spending an hour or two in a restaurant over pizza and wine sounds like torture—but on the other hand, maybe he’ll finally find out what Charles wanted all those British Museum blueprints for.

“You are going to tell me about your plan, aren’t you?”

Charles gives him a distracted look before he holds out a hand. The snake nonchalantly winds its way up his arms, coiling around his shoulder as if it wants to keep an eye on Thomas while Charles is driving.

“I might,” Charles says, “next time I’m back. If you’re good.”

Thomas can feel his face fall, even though the snake is still staring at him. “But how can I help when I don’t know exactly what you want to do?”

“Just do as I ask. That’s all—for now. I reward you well enough for that.”

Thomas sighs, because he knows he can’t argue with that—not when he’s sitting in a car full of clothes worth more than his cracking rig.

A moment later, Charles hand is on his knee, then his thigh, then—Thomas gasps, then closes his eyes and relaxes back into his seat.

The snake hisses; it sounds almost like a word, and Charles laughs softly in answer.

Let them keep their secrets then. He’ll do whatever Charles wants anyway; he always does.

At least this time, he’s getting a date out of it.


End file.
